by Lisa James
He sat slouched in the dock, a look of pure hatred on his face, which was puffy and lined, with huge black bags under his eyes. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and his sparse head of hair looked as though he had dyed it with a tin of black boot polish only that morning. I could see the skin on his scalp was stained black. I felt ill to look at him, and dragged my eyes away.
The judge seemed like a kindly old man and made sure I had access to water and tissues, which would come in very handy. My barrister started to take me through my statement. There was no room for skirting round the issue. Everything was detailed in the most graphic manner so there could be no misunderstanding. I felt as though I was being raped all over again, and this was the prosecution. He kept motioning me to direct my answers to the jury but it was hard to look directly into the faces of twelve strangers and talk about the most lurid acts imaginable.
A couple of times I heard Dad snort with derision, his familiar gravelly tones roughened further by many more years of drinking and smoking. His barrister shot him a warning look, and the judge told me to ignore him.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry but after ten minutes, the dam burst. The strain of waiting years, months and days for this moment was too much. I let it out and sobbed so much that we had to pause while I pulled myself together. From that point on, I gave my evidence clearly and concisely. I looked at each jury member in turn, no longer frightened to tell them the truth, no matter how unpleasant. I could see by subtle shakes of the head and the odd tear-filled eye that most of them were moved.
At five o’clock the judge sent us home. I was staying in a hotel nearby because the case had to be heard in London, where the crimes had been committed. I spent a long and troubled night thinking over my statement, and hoping I wouldn’t forget things, get dates wrong, or make any other innocent mistake the defence would leap on.
I finished giving my evidence at the end of day two and the judge had just dismissed me from the witness box when the Rottweiler jumped to his feet and barked, ‘Your honour, I would just like to take this opportunity to remind Mrs James that she is only part way through giving her evidence, and she is absolutely forbidden to discuss this case with anyone.’
I knew it was all part of his bravado, his way of telling me that I might have had an easy time with the prosecution, but tomorrow he would be the one calling the shots.
That night I was more scared than I had ever been. I had come so far, fought so hard against the justice system to get my day in court, and now if I said the wrong thing it could all be over.
As I walked into court the next morning, my hand shook as I took a glass of water from the usher. The Rottweiler noticed and I thought I detected a hint of a smirk.
When his questioning started, he managed to unsettle me straight away. His tone was unnecessarily harsh and aggressive, and he repeatedly asked me the same question in different ways. I suspected he was trying to throw me off balance, but the judge became impatient and stepped in to remind him that he had already asked me that question several times and furthermore his line of questioning didn’t seem to be leading anywhere.
‘Now, can we move along, Mr Farmer?’
I realised quickly that much of the Rottweiler’s abrasive style was bravado. I was able to answer every question he asked me in a manner consistent with my statement. I also complained to the judge on at least two occasions when I felt he was purposefully trying to mislead the jury. He was forced to apologise before moving on.
I began to realise he had his work cut out in defending a man who had already admitted taking his stepdaughter’s virginity. Surely it would be hard for the jury to accept there had been no prior abuse or grooming? After all, it wasn’t natural for a girl to decide of her own free will to jump into bed with her dad as soon as she turned sixteen.
In total I spent four further days under cross-examination, which by all accounts is something of a record. Many times the defence barrister would say something and I’d point out he had made a mistake. The judge would then have to clear the court while the barristers engaged in legal argument. This was pushing the court time to the limit and there was a danger we would run out of time, which would result in the case being classed as a mistrial.
Once, after a lunch break, the usher showed me into the ante-room beside the court to wait until I was called. I nearly threw up. I could tell my dad had been in there before me from the stench of stale cigarettes, body odour and alcohol. I couldn’t stay there. After taking a whiff herself, the usher understood completely and moved me outside.
‘Yes, he’s just been in there with his barrister,’ she confirmed.
Just when I was starting to flag, and thought I couldn’t go on for much longer, the Rottweiler announced he’d finished with me. I gave a sigh of relief. It was nearly over. I could do no more. Before the judge could dismiss me, my barrister was given the opportunity to question me again but he only needed to ask me one further question, which I am told was very good going. It indicated I had done an excellent job at delivering my evidence, so we didn’t have a long list of clarifications to make.
‘Thank you, Mrs James. You are free to go,’ said the judge over the top of his spectacles.
But the trial was far from over. I was told Bridget and Karen would be going in next, and then it would be the defence’s turn to bring forward any supporting witnesses. Everybody was conscious that the trial had over-run quite considerably, and it was fingers crossed we wouldn’t run out of time.
Now that I had been dismissed, I had a choice whether to stay and listen to the rest of the case or not. But it would have meant staying in the hotel for a few more days, and by this time I was desperate to go home to my husband and children, who I hadn’t seen in nearly a week. My police officer advised that no purpose could be served by me staying.
‘In my experience, it’ll only upset you,’ she explained.
I agreed. I knew that if I had to sit and listen to the Rottweiler trying to defend the indefensible for a moment longer I might spontaneously combust. No, my work was done. I was going home.
As I left the court I felt as if a huge burden had been lifted. I told myself it didn’t matter what the outcome was, although maybe this was just my mind in self-preservation mode. I knew I had fought a long hard battle, and even if the foreman of the court announced a not guilty verdict, I had done my very best to secure justice. I could finally hold my head up high and know I had done everything possible to rid the streets of a very evil man.
The detective promised to call as soon as there was any news. I spent the next few days trying to keep myself occupied but both Neil and I jumped every time the phone rang.
Eventually the verdict was in. The jury found Dad guilty of four counts of indecent assault.
My police officer reported that Dad hardly reacted when the verdict was delivered, just slumping forward slightly with a look of resignation on his face.
‘Sentencing won’t be for a couple of weeks while reports are prepared.’
‘What sort of reports?’ I asked.
‘Just his general health, that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘But I want to warn you not to expect too much.’
She had already explained that because the offences were committed while I was growing up in the 1970s and 80s, he would be sentenced with the tariffs in place at the time. ‘If he’d done the same these days, he’d be looking at ten years,’ she said. ‘But it won’t be anything near that.’
A few weeks later, the detective rang with news of the sentence. ‘He got four terms of twenty-one months,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t sound much, and he’ll probably be out in half that, but don’t lose sight of your victory, Lisa. You overcame great odds to present your case in front of the judiciary and they believed beyond all reasonable doubt that he abused you while you grew up. He’ll also be placed on the Sex Offender’s Register for ten years.’
The sentence didn’t sound much in comparison to what Dad had done to me, but I had learned enoug
h over the past months to know that only a minuscule percentage of cases reach as far as the court room. I was one of the lucky ones. Besides, it had never been about the length of time Dad served. I cared only that a judge and jury of ‘twelve good men and true’ made it clear that civilised society will not tolerate Dad’s kind of depravity.
I wanted justice done to enable me to shake off the shackles of guilt, shame and fear that had held me down for most of my life.
I wanted justice for the little girl I used to be. I knew I would never truly find peace unless I had stood up for that small, frightened child.
Mummy knew but she didn’t care, and when my family found out, they didn’t care either. But I did. I am different to them. It took a while but through experiencing the wonder of my own children, witnessing their joy, beauty and innocence, I finally learned to care enough about myself to do what was right by the little Lisa within me.
And I know that when my children are old enough to hear my story, they will be proud I did.
Acknowledgements
It’s fair to say that writing this book has taken me on a white-knuckle rollercoaster ride of emotion. I have relived the highs and lows of my childhood and somehow managed to roll out of the dark tunnel and into the light of the future, wearing a smile – albeit looking a little windswept!
It has been such a privilege to share my story, and I owe a debt of gratitude to Judith Chilcote for introducing me to Susanna Abbott and Sally Annett at HarperCollins, who trusted me to write this book in my own words. Thank you all for giving me the opportunity to finally draw a line under my past. Thanks also to the brilliant Gill Paul, whose help and encouragement is greatly appreciated.
A special thanks to Shy Keenan and Sara Payne of The Phoenix Chief Advocates for keeping me safe and warm under those huge Phoenix wings. Keep up the good work!
I will also be eternally grateful to my old friends and saviours, Bridget and Karen, for showing such courage in stepping forward to give evidence when it would have been so much easier for them to turn away like all the others did. The world would be a much better place if there were more people like you.
Huge hugs and kisses to my amazing friend Shaz up in bonnie Scotland for all the warmth, wit and incredible wisdom she’s given me over the years. I would have been lost without you.
Lastly, I owe my wonderful husband and children more than I could ever attempt to fit into a sentence. Suffice it to say, my heart swells with love and pride as I write. Thank you for filling my life with such love and happiness, showing me what a real family is and allowing me to be the kind of mother I never knew myself.
Further Information
To find out more about the author, visit www.lisajames.com.
For more information about The Phoenix Chief Advocates and the work they do please visit www.tpcauk.com.
Copyright
This book is based on the author’s experiences.
In order to protect privacy, some names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.
HarperElement An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
and HarperElement are trademarks of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
First published by HarperElement 2009
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© Lisa James 2009
Lisa James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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EPub Edition © JULY 2009 ISBN: 978-0-007-32518-4
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